The Ruby Charm
by SecretlyEvil
Summary: Set in Narnia 12 years after the Pevensie crowning. Plots against the royal family send Peter on a false war and Lucy on a desperate race against time to unearth dangerous secrets beneath the walls of Cair Paravel. Rated for violence.
1. The Beginning of Worries

Chapter 1: The Beginning of Worries

Soft, silky yellow rose petals tumbled and floated about the bright, light-coloured room full of great, tall glass windows that looked out onto the balcony of peachy-hued marble and stone. Smooth blue carpets and pearl green curtains and pink cushions all looked in harmony around the white beech wood furniture. The gentle breeze that stirred the flowers in their vases and caused petals to be lifted up and drifted about came from the open door that led out onto the balcony, as high as the tall, arched ceiling. Paintings of wonderful creatures hung on the walls: Dwarfs chopping wood, Naiads swimming among the lily pads of a pond, Fauns dancing around a great tree. And on a low table, there was an intricate and very beautiful sculpture of a Satyr holding up a pear.

The furniture was all crafted with great skill, most likely created by Wood gods and goddesses. Many small tables were scattered about, supporting a candle, or a book, or a pot of flowers, or a set of combs and pins bejewelled with emeralds and diamonds. An enormous wardrobe stood in one corner, a bed laid with pale yellow coverlets in another, and a small white tea table with two matching chairs with velvet rose pillows in the centre.

Two very different but very beautiful young ladies sat at this table, all grace and elegance, sipping tiny porcelain cups of tea and nibbling gingerly at rich biscuits. They spoke with a fine tongue and wore elaborate, pale gowns fit for women of highest standing, but they had a look of more then simple dames who spoke only of weddings and the weather, as most noble ladies seemed to. In their eyes shone the light of adventure, for they were quite extraordinary young women, and had had many great adventures.

The first, who sat in the chair nearest the balcony windows, was tall, proud and regal. She had skin coloured to the perfect shade of bronzy beige, raven black hair that tumbled over her shoulders and down the back of the chair in long curly locks, deep, sparkling, almost black eyes and full red lips. She was considered one of the most beautiful women in all the lands, and her name was Susan the Gentle, Queen of Narnia.

The second was much smaller and shorter then the first, and almost equally as beautiful but in different ways. Her skin was pale but had a healthy rosy glow, her eyes were a deep sea blue, and they looked like portholes looking out into the swirling waves of an ocean. Long golden hair was held up with silver pins and combs, twisted, braided and pinned in the Archenland style and curled down to her shoulders. Her lips were quite small in comparison with the other woman's, but they were still quite lovely, as they were always tilted up in a small smile that complimented her face very prettily. Her name was Lucy the Valiant, Queen of Narnia.

One would never have known that these two were sisters, but they were. Great queens who ruled over the fabled land of Narnia, they were sought after by nearly every king and prince who lay eyes on them. Since their ascension to the throne, when they were both little more then children, they had grown into sophisticated, just and head-strong young ladies, and they governed over their land with a care and devotion equal to that of a mother with her child.

"Oh young sister, would it not be simpler to allow our noble allies unto our fair forests, for surely wood is sorely lacking in the sandy wonders of Calormen, and our wondrous fields of cultivable soil possess an abundance of trees for which to construct all that is needed for _every_ land throughout this blessed region," said Queen Susan between small, dainty sips of her warm lemon and pear tea. If a servant were to come into the room, they surely would have thought it ridiculous to speak so formerly with your own blood, but somehow these two made it seem the only way to speak at all.

"Good lady, thou dost possess a heart of gold, to wish for all to partake in the riches of our kingdom. Truly do I say that thou art fairest and most just among all rulers. But I pray thee to consider our honourable friends dwelling deep in the forests of Narnia, and the homes that would ruin should inhabited woodlands be destroyed and taken to far off lands. My heart would weep for their lives, for I could not bear to see their world of delight shattered for naught but firewood and other simple trinkets of such."

"Dear friend, how ignorant of me! Would I have your gentle mind and considerate tongue, I would surely be blessed. Truly should thee be praised for such love and compassion as thou have expressed at this hour for our dear and loyal subjects in these lands, and thou speaketh rightly. Though our great forests are many in number, so do our dear friends, the Naiads, good Gods and Goddesses of the Wood, Fauns, Nymphs, Dwarfs, and all the like, possess them all rightfully as their own soil, for they tend the wondrous woodlands of Narnia with such care that even should a great host of men and beasts come to make use of our good trees, wouldst they not do battle with them and have all their blood be spilt upon the Earth then have these grounds be taken to be beaten down and built upon?" At this, Susan shivered and put a kerchief to her mouth. "In the name of Aslan himself, let it never be so."

Lucy inclined her head once. "Your words are truth, fair sister. Even as we take only small portions of our woods for our own country's use does my mind rest in unease and my heart pound with chagrin. So do I wish lumber were not of importance, to be cut down from the homes of our loyal subjects. Truly, by the Lion's Mane, does rain fall from mine eyes to have knowledge that daily do we break apart our good friends, though our actions are permitted."

Their conversation continued on in such a fashion until the tea and biscuits had long since been finished. It seemed the pair would have gone on all through the day if it hadn't been for a young but heavy-set man, dark of hair and light of skin, who looked remarkably like Susan melded into a much sterner, harder and more masculine shape. He was in fact her younger brother, Lucy's elder, and his name was Edmund the Just, King of Narnia. A royal blue cloak hung about his wide frame, and a sword intricately patterned was buckled to his belt. Unlike most kings in those lands, it was not just for show; Edmund had learned the sword by a great commander, and he knew how to use it.

This young king knocked softly on the door with a large fist, and without waiting, pushed it open. Susan and Lucy turned their heads expectantly towards him. "Elegant sisters," he began, "your presences are requested down in the Great Hall. A Narnian Talking Beast asked an audience of the High King an hour past. Our brother spoketh to him, and appeared wrathful when he sent me to you."

Susan and Lucy stood at once and left the room with Edmund. They both knew that "wrathful" was an overstatement, for the High King Peter, their eldest brother, was always composed and collected.

Lucy looked around as the three strolled along the vast hallways of Cair Paravel. They possessed nothing of the cold, dark hardness of most of the castles and fortresses she'd seen; everything was soft and light. Tapestries hung at intervals along the walls and the stone floors were carpeted with bright colours. There were no ugly torch brackets to be seen: instead, balls of glass that glowed with a warm, yellow light stood on thin golden rods every few feet, gifts from the Dryads. There were many windows as well, all allowing bright sunshine through to cast strange stripes of shadow and light upon the floor.

They reached the corner of the hallway, to where the two walls should have met. Instead, there was a great open space looking out onto a beautiful garden full of birds, flowers, fountains and walkways and barred off only by a waist-high wooden banister. Without pausing, Edmund and Susan turned right and continued on down the hall, but Lucy stayed behind to gaze down at the garden below. The sound of the birds chirping, of the water tinkling, the feel of the warm sunshine and the soft wind...

"Queen Lucy," Edmund said sharply, and she looked up quickly. "Wouldst we have time to linger by the windows, I would have left thee to thy tea and crumpets." He and Susan had both turned around, and though they were not glaring, they looked highly disapproving.

"I beg for thy pardon, good brother. Detection of importance in haste has always been a great virtue in thy mind. Please forgive my impertinence."

"Think no more of it," he said in a softer tone, and turned around briskly to continue down the passage. Though she knew it was unladylike, Lucy picked up her skirts and hurried to catch up to her siblings. Susan sometimes reminded her of their age difference by chiding her about unimportant things, but Edmund seldom used his slight authority over her unless she really deserved it. She peered at the back of her brother's head thoughtfully. What _was_ the message the Talking Beast had told Peter?

As the royal figures made their way through the castle, they passed servants and subjects of the palace, and occasionally a member of the Imperial Court or a representative of a province or another country. Some faces Lucy had never seen before, like that elderly man with an odd droop to the corner of his mouth, as though half of his face wanted to frown but the other half didn't, and that middle-aged woman wearing so many necklaces and bracelets that Lucy was surprised she could walk with such a straight back.

It wasn't uncommon for Cair Paravel to house wealthy men and women from high standing families. They came to the palace in an endless stream to take part in, or at least to observe, an assembly of the Imperial Court, because there was always something being debated in the Royal Hall. At this time of year, there was an unusually large amount of unfamiliar faces. Late spring was a time of great joy in Narnia, for all throughout winter, its life seemed to slow to a standstill. Animals, even Talking Beasts, retreated to their burrows, water beings sunk deep into rivers and lakes until they thawed, and wood beings and spirits returned to their trees to await the departure of the cold and their rebirth through the sprouts of spring. The appearance of the first bud of a tree was a cause for great celebration in the country, and gatherings and parties were organised in every corner of the nation. The two kings and queens were no exception, and every year they held a ball to honour the arrival of the season. Houses from every land flocked to Cair Paravel to attend. After all, the annual spring cotillion of Narnia was like no other.

Lucy always looked forward to these balls. Dressing in a beautiful gown and amazing the guests. Whirling around in a lively dance to the sweet sound of the wooden instruments of the Satyrs. Staying up all night to greet the sunrise. The entire day was like a wonderful dream.

Presently, they arrived in the vast Great Hall. It was colossal. The eyes of a hawk could not detect the intricate patterns sculpted into the dizzyingly high domed ivory ceiling. Enormous windows equally as high looked out onto the paved courtyard in view of the sea, with its hugely thick columns supporting the sheltering roof. The windows showed so much, some forgot they were inside because they were surrounded with trees and flowers.

Lucy had lived too long at Cair Paravel to be amazed by the immenseness of its Great Hall, but she was constantly reminded of it when observing others' reactions at their first sight. It was also rather hard to forget when it took her five minutes to cross the chamber.

At the southern end of the hall, four massive thrones stood on a dais four feet higher then floor level. Exactly the same in shape, size and design except the colour of their cushions, they stood in a row, all facing toward the centre of the room. In order, from left to right, the colour of the soft, satin framed by carved, wooden decoration was green, violet, blue and yellow.

Two servants bowed them through the large double doors, but Edmund and Susan gave them not a glance as they hurried through the opening and across the enormous marble floor directly for the dais. Following in their wake, Lucy could barely make out her brother, the High King Peter, seated on the first throne. When he saw them, Peter stood and glided down the dais' steps towards them. They met halfway, and Lucy studied her eldest brother's face carefully, trying to determine the nature of the message brought to him.

Everyone always said Peter and Lucy could be twins if they weren't five years apart in age because they looked so similar. They had the same golden hair (though his was much shorter), the same bright sea blue eyes, and the same pleasant, cheerful curve to their lips. But right now, Peter did not look happy. His eyebrows were slanted downward in a worried scowl, there were burning flames in his eyes instead of crashing waves, and a tightness around his mouth erased the usual smile it displayed.

Susan touched his arm, looking worried. "Sibling, what is it that causes thee grievance? Would I know, for our fair brother, King Edmund, has spoketh to me of an emissary with ill tidings for thine ears. It troubles my mind to hear such words."

"Battle and death," said Peter, turning to look at her with a face like stone. Every word he drove in with iron nails. "Our lands around the Glasswater are being taken by strange, dark raiders. The messenger here tells of an unspeakable slaughter at Burlin's Cap. Here do we sit in luxury and security as the blood of our people is spilt upon the Earth. I refuse to suffer the massacre of Narnians! By the Lion's Mane and by all of which is without price to me, I will not allow this!" His last sentences came out as a shout, and the repeat of his words echoed back to them from the great marble ceiling high above.

Edmund looked grave, his eyebrows drawing down as he fingered the sword at his hip. Susan gave a faint moan and put a hand to her brow, swaying gracefully. Three servants darted forward, drawing up a chair as though from thin air and seating her down gently. One whipped out a fan and began beating it furiously to give a breeze to the queen's face. She had become increasingly light-headed when it came to thoughts of battle and carnage.

Lucy frowned and bit her lip worriedly. Why did this have to happen so close to the banquet? She gave herself a shake. Had she become as cold and emotionless as a Calormen noblewoman? Her loyal subjects were being butchered down south, and she was upset that it disrupted festivities.

Abruptly, she noticed a small creature by Peter's ankle, peering up at the foursome rather shyly. It was an oversized squirrel, blinking about with enormous, intelligent brown eyes, and nervously wringing its tiny paws. It noticed them staring, and gave a series of increasingly higher pitched squeaks. Finally, it stepped forward and spoke with its impossibly high voice.

"Every word true, your majesties. I seen with my own two eyes! Great big ships came into the harbour, sails all black. They all came runnin', without even checkin' in at the docks. Mardock tried assemblin' us to fight 'em, but they was too quick, and too good with the blade." It started to weep, hiccoughing and sniffling as it spoke. "They cut down everyone, beast or man. We tried to run, but they got us first. They got everyone but me, and maybe a few others. But they took my sisters, and my aunt Mongree." It began to sob, holding its snout in tiny paws and shaking uncontrollably.

Lucy felt incredible compassion for the little creature. She stooped to pick it up, and because it was a Talking Beast, was twice the size as the average squirrel and filled both her palms. It's eyes widened slightly at being picked up, but it did not protest.

"The sun has set on my happiness with thee, oh mournful squirrel," said Lucy, beginning to feel quite teary herself. "The horrors thy must have encountered I can only begin to fathom. And with thy family gone as well..." A tear dropped down onto the little animal's head, and it looked up in wonder as Lucy cried along with it. She held it to her breast, and together they wept.

Lucy had a great love and compassion for nature, and she cared about creatures of the wood, sea, sky, sand and rock almost as if they were her own children. As a result, many in later years questioned Lucy's and Susan's titles, debating over which was the more gentle of the two. For, though Susan was more regal and dignified with her darkly beautiful face and her courtesy and consideration for people, Lucy seemed to have a special affection for Talking Beasts and other Enchanted Ones, as the spirits of wood and water, rock and sand and air were called.

It seemed, however, that Peter was in no mood to waste time crying. "Madam," he fairly snapped, "Kindly reserve your distress for other times. By my counsel should you cease your overreactions and mature sufficiently to abandon your childish grievances." This brought Susan's head up abruptly in shock and merited a disapproving frown from Edmund. Lucy's face reddened as she returned the squirrel to the ground, and her face shifted from outrage to meekness, as though trying to decide on a reaction. Peter gave her no chance as he turned to Edmund. "Brother, this new foe must not be permitted to roam our lands. If ye will have it so, let us proceed to my study, where we shall discuss a course of action against said opponents."

Face grave, Edmund nodded sharply, and the two set out across the hall, disappearing through the main doors. It was only then that Lucy noticed the small crowd of nobles encircling her and Susan that had apparently witnessed the discussion. She studied the surrounding faces apprehensively. A Narnian woman and two men with varying degress of wealth; her eyes slipped over them without notice, as they did over the oversized cat, plainly a Narnian Talking Beast. Five Archenlander men were present, two adorned with expensive jewellery and wearing coats heavily embroidered with gold that could only mark them of noble lineage. The other three wore humbler clothing, plainly of lesser Houses. A Calormene man stood almost out of sight in a dark cloak trimmed with red that swept the floor and with a pretty woman much younger then he on his arm. He met Lucy's gaze levelly, cool and arrogant, bringing up a hand to twist the edge of his thick but well-groomed black moustache. Middle-aged and dark featured, he reeked of haughtiness and pride, with a large jaw and forehead, and beetle black eyes that glittered dangerously.

Had she not been a well brought-up lady, Lucy would have cursed. He was obviously of high standing in Calormen, and could send word to the Tisroc of Narnia's situation. It could be nothing, but as Second Queen of Narnia, she knew that it was very unsafe to assume something just because it was easier to stomach. Although Calormen was the nation's supposed friend, the feeble ties binding it to Narnia were shaky and likely prepared to collapse should an advantage arise for the current ruler of the southern country. If Peter and Edmund were willing to allow the Tisroc to find out, it would be best if his discovery was prompted on their terms, not those of this conceited noble.

"Who is that man?" Lucy almost gave a start when Susan spoke beside her. Almost. "His eyes play shadows over my soul." This was a Narnian expression, meaning that he made her nervous.

Lucy frowned and shook her head, watching as he turned away and left the small circle of upper class men and women. If she asked around, she could perhaps find out about him, but that could draw unwanted attention...

With a sigh, she returned to face her sister, feeling much older then her nineteen years. She could not remember trouble like this in all of her twelve years on the throne. Certainly Narnia had fought battles since then; in a bloodthirsty world such as this, avoiding war was unthinkable. However, always before they had known who they were up against, whether it was Calormen or remnants of the frozen creatures of the White Witch, or whatever other foes to do battle with. These strange dark men Lucy was sure she'd never heard of before: she supposed they were from across the Great Eastern Ocean, come to conquer lands to the west. In any case, she always hated news of bloodshed. It had a way of complicating things.

"You would pardon me if I were to retire to my chambers, dearest Susan?" she asked, and Susan smiled and gave her a sympathetic look along with a nod of assent. They clasped hands briefly, and Lucy departed in the direction her brothers had left, feeling as though it had been a terribly long day. How could it be that, nigh on an hour ago, she had been chatting companionably with her sister in her room, oblivious to the troubles of her country? In her wake, the large squirrel scuttled about at her skirts unnoticed.

Peter rubbed at his temples in the silent darkness of his study. It was fairly small, for he never did care for unnecessary decorations. They cluttered things, and mussed concentration. Aslan only knew how important concentration was for the High King of Narnia. The single large window let in next to no light apart from the faint moonlight, for it was very late in the night. One single Dryad globe stood on the desk, lighting up its covered surface with a pale blue glow. Maps were littered about the room, piled on the floor or on vacant armchairs. A stack of fresh parchment lay in front of the King under the still raised inky pen, poised at the top of the first paper expectantly. He scowled down at it, willing it to write, but his mind could not form the right commands to encourage his hand to move. And so he sat at his desk, waiting for inspiration to begin the letter.

He could not understand the immovability of his quill. Edmund and he had talked for hours about the positioning of troops, the rationing, the war tactics, the possibilities of aid from allies. Commands would be sent out to every captain in Narnia, calling all troops to rendezvous a mile north of Burlin's Cap. Residents of that area were also to head for that location and help the army in any way possible.

He willed the pen to touch the parchment, to begin to write, but it did nothing but sit useless in his hand. Soldiers and other loyal subjects were to await the arrival of the High King Peter. Who better to lead in battle? Peter was not immodest, and he had to admit that, though Edmund was fairly skilled with a blade, he had nothing on himself when it came to war. And Peter had been told many years ago that battles were ugly when women fought, and he agreed whole-heartedly. He would not send his sisters into battle if the opposite would cost him his life.

In the name of Aslan, why would the blasted feather not move? He scraped the quill across the paper so hard it tore through it and the next two under it as well. It dropped from his nerveless hands. These were dark times. He could not remember being this edgy since his first years as High King. What could these dark strangers want in Narnia? Scouts sent out to evaluate the situation were to leave at first light, of course, but the reports would not arrive for another couple of weeks, eleven days if he was lucky. A hundred things could happen in that time.

Closing his eyes, Peter took several deep breaths, attempting to calm his mind and arrange his thoughts properly. It mattered little what the attackers wanted, so long as they were repressed as soon as possible. The scouts would take less then eleven days to reach Peter, because he would be moving in their direction with the majority of the Narnian army at his back.

He gave what seemed like the hundredth sigh that day. The orders would have to wait until tomorrow. He was dead tired, and would not have been able to write a letter at sword point. He stood, stretched, and headed for the door, thinking fond thoughts of his large bed in the centre of Cair Paravel. Halfway to the door, he paused as his eyes rested upon the four portraits hanging on the opposite wall. They had been given as a gift from a famous Centaur painter who made exceptional creations with his watercolours. The first to the left was a mirror image of himself, proud and triumphant in a gleaming suit of armour and standing over a dead enemy at his feet. The Centaur had accentuated his best feature: the broadness of his shoulders and chest. Peter wondered if he had not exaggerated a little: he had not thought himself so large as that. To the right was Susan, strikingly beautiful in a clinging red gown. She sat alone in a long Calormene sofa chair, surrounded by platters of fruit and smiling faintly. Her dark eyes, long flowing black hair, and full red lips were most prominent. Next was Edmund, standing at the Table of Judgement, looking most stern and majestic.

Lastly came Lucy's portrait, at which Peter stood before to examine. She wore a gown of purest white satin and she danced with a fawn. Her head was tilted back slightly in a laugh so real-looking he could almost hear it. He was very sorry for humiliating her so publicly that afternoon, but his temper had been at very short reign. He would speak to her tomorrow.

Though he loved all his siblings dearly, he seemed to have a special bond with his youngest sister. He vaguely recalled getting along best with Susan as children because of their closeness in age, with a span of only two years separating them, but he found that she had changed since then. She was very diplomatic and, oddly enough, had a great understanding of law, but Peter found that she acted rather silly at times, rather too much like an empty-headed wife of a lord only there to look pretty. In truth, she had not yet married (an occasion he hoped was still far off) but he was not so naïve as to think she had not taken several lovers in the course of her twelve-year reign. He knew she was not a child anymore, but he could not keep his jaw from clenching whenever he saw her on the arm of yet another dark, handsome young prince or high seat. And in some cases, they were not so young, maybe even almost old enough to be her father. Peter shook his head. He had no right to question his sister in that area, and it was certainly no business of his whom she decided to take interest in.

Edmund was a friend as well, a wonderful companion who Peter would consider to be the best advisor he'd ever met. He was always courteous and polite, and a brother Peter enjoyed playing a game of chess with over whine any time. He was always a great help when it came to matters of ruling Narnia, and always seemed to know what to do. However, Peter had always thought of Edmund as a fairly quiet and solemn man, reflective and calm. He never got excited, and he never spoke of anything that wasn't absolutely logical and correct. He was distant at the best of times, and though his company was enjoyable, the friendship between he and Peter was quite formal, something that the High King felt was much to awkward at times.

He felt a great deal closer to Lucy then to Susan or Edmund. She was always so cheerful and enthusiastic, so kind and friendly. Peter was sure she could tell exactly what he was thinking just by looking at his face, because he could do the same with her. A smile from her could melt the sun with its warmth, could lighten the entire night sky with its brightness. You could not hold a conversation with her for five minutes without liking her. It was impossible. He rarely saw her worried, and he could tell her anything, because he knew she would always understand.

She was not perfect: that he knew. She often gave up when things were too hard and her memory was far from good. She was very indecisive and changed her mind as quick as blinking. But everyone had their flaws... Goodness, Aslan knew he had as many as the next person, perhaps more. Being a king was no easy task.

He heaved another sigh and left his study, only pausing at the door to lock it shut from the inside. He did not notice the slim shadow of a man crouching out of sight behind a massive plant, peering through its leaves, waiting for the door to close.


	2. Importance and Uselessness

Chapter 2: Importance and Uselessness  
  
"...established west of the area to secure our position, led by Under Captain Filon Cobae, where they will remain until further instruction. Under Captain Cobae, we assume your knowledge is sufficient to..."  
  
Lucy's attention swam in and out of focus. She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand, and once again attempted to wake herself up by waving a feathered fan at her face, creating a pleasant breeze and brief respite from the stuffy heat of the Royal Hall. For such an extravagant name, it was remarkably plain. The walls were painted with dark maroons and navy blues, separated with panels of polished wood. Oil paintings adorned the walls at intervals, and between each, small sconces holding candles and their flickering flames. It was a long, narrow room, completely taken up by a large but undecorated table of sturdy dark wood and the multitude of chairs surrounding it. They were all identical except for the four at each end, which had higher backs and cushions set into the seats. These, of course, were reserved for and currently occupied by the four kings and queens: Edmund and Peter at the end farthest to the door, and Susan and Lucy the end closest.  
  
She could see Edmund across the table, like so many times before, standing with every head turned towards him, speaking so calmly, so confidently, gesturing with his hands to emphasize certain things. Like a chief wolf to the pack. Lucy almost laughed at the irony. She had never heard of a pack ready to tear down their leader and devour him, given half the chance.  
  
They truly would rip him off the throne, she mused with a slight frown. Along with her, Susan and Peter of course. They were like a flock of seagulls all wheeling over a fish near the shore. Conscious of every other bird winging near them, they circle slowly closer to their prey, just waiting for it to stray too close to shore, for a wave to fall back and trap it on the bank, where it will flop and thrash to correct its mistake, already knowing it is doomed to be ripped apart by hundreds of greedy beaks and claws.  
  
Most of them, anyway. The Narnian nobles she trusted completely, but the Calormene schemed behind others' backs as naturally as they drew breath, and even several Archenlander members of the court looked far more fake when bowing and curtsying then was necessary. She would like nothing better then to rid the Imperial Court of those obvious infidels, but it wasn't that simple. Nothing ever was, in this complicated game royalty played.  
  
She noticed Edmund's talk rounding down to a close and popped out of her melancholic reverie. She could always tell when he was finishing; he seemed to lean back near the end, as though slowly backing away and withdrawing from their hawk-eyed stares. "...prepared. Should anyone have questions, opinions or counsel to be made know before the Imperial Court of Narnia, I advise them to speak now, for other chances, upon this matter, will not be given again, unless the Council of Judgement agrees upon such." These were the formal closing words of the gathering, and signalled its official end. Sitters were now permitted to leave if they wished, but no one ever did until the talking had ended. They might miss something important.  
  
Her eyes casually scanned the table, analysing faces, picking out new from old. Dorien Kahrtoll of Archenland, greying red hair slicked back from his face. He was a pleasant man: she spoke to him occasionally in passing. A lady she recognised but could not name with straight, dark hair, deep set eyes and an unattractively scowling mouth, undoubtedly also from Archenland. She ticked the names off on her mind, calculating who was missing, who had been absent last time...  
  
Her eyes fell on a dark-skinned fellow in an overly embroidered black coat with a high neck, and her fingers twitched in recognition and surprise. It was the arrogant man from yesterday, the Calormene gentleman who had seen the four kings and queens discussing the attack. She had not known he was apart of the Imperial Court. It did not matter, then, that he knew of Narnia's troubles. Obviously Peter and Edmund had not found them necessary to hide. Still, there was something about him she did not like at all, and it had nothing to do with the way he looked at her, as though she were beetle inside a book he wanted to snap shut on and crush but didn't want to soil the pages. For a split second, their gazes met, and she could see the contempt and disgust plain on his face.  
  
She swept her long, golden hair, which she had left down today, angrily over her shoulder. He had no right to sneer at her so. He, of a minor House in Calormen, should be bowing to the floor she, the Second Queen of Narnia, walked on. Outrage melted into bewilderment and self-disgust. What, in the name of Aslan, had come over her? Never before had she felt the need to remind herself of her position, or, indeed, really care about her position. She never considered herself as Lucy, Queen of Narnia. It was always simply Lucy of Narnia, in her mind. Why then did this man suddenly make her want to feel higher then she was? She watched him for a long while, but his attention was focussed on the current exchange between Edmund and a Narnian lady, and he did not look her way again. So, she went back to scrutinizing the others, desperately trying to stop her gaze from swinging back to his face.  
  
Lucy caught Peter's eye at the opposite end of the table, a goodly distance. He gave her a quick smile and nodded subtly toward the door. She raised an eyebrow questioningly, and he gave a fraction of a nod while rising from his chair. The four of them, that is to say, the four rulers of Narnia, had developed this way of communicating without words, faint hints of gestures that no one but they would ever recognise or see meaning in. Peter obviously wanted her to go out into the hallway with him, but for what, she had no notion. What could possibly have possessed him to stand out so among all of these members of the Court? The High King Peter and his sister Queen Lucy leaving in the middle of the end discussion period would hardly go unnoticed, and it would cause talk.  
  
She stood and closed the short distance between her and the double doors of heavy wood, watching Peter stroll (he did indeed make it seem as though he were strolling) along the small space between the chairs and the wall from the corner of her eye. He appeared unconcerned and at his ease, not even glancing her way. Yes, this would cause talk. With both of them leaving at the same moment, the nobles would not know what to think. They would cook up the strangest tales so obscure and farfetched even a Naiad would not believe them, and Naiads were known to be quite gullible.  
  
Peter met her outside the door, closing it behind him and giving her a sly grin. Lucy, arms crossed across her chest, gave him her best disapproving look. She glanced down each end of the hallway, eyes running along the somehow soft stone walls draped with tapestries. Because they were in the centre of Cair Paravel, there were no windows to give light, so there was an abundance of Dryad orbs fixed to the wall or hanging from the ceiling, making the wide hallway as bright as daylight. Seeing no one, not even a servant, she spoke.  
  
"Peter, what are you playing at?" said Lucy impatiently, slipping into a less distinguished dialect she only used when she and her brother were alone. "Do you want them to start spreading stories?" There was no need to say who 'they' were. "This had better be important, or I'll gut you like a fish and hang you in the sun to dry."  
  
"Oh, let them spread their stories, Lu," Peter grinned. Yet, however he smiled, she could see the worry in his eyes. "I'm tired of guarding every word I say and thing I do." He took her hands, voice turning grave and smile fading. "Listen, I wanted to talk to you about yesterday. No, don't interrupt," he added when she opened her mouth to tell him there was no need. "I had no right to speak to you so, and I feel awful for saying what I did. You're not a child: I know that. I was just in a rotten mood."  
  
His words caused her to remember the squirrel from yesterday. She had spent a pleasant afternoon with her, considering the circumstances. They had talked of many things in one of Cair Paravel's lower parlours, and had gotten to know eachother fairly well in the expanse of an evening. She was now in the care of one of the servants, the very same who had been charged to find her somewhere to sleep, for, although the palace held many rooms for Talking Beasts, none were fit for squirrels, however big they were.  
  
"I know, Peter," said Lucy softly, giving his hands a squeeze before letting them go, and he nodded solemnly in understanding. He was always such a gentleman. She loved him so. He was so much easier to talk to than Susan or Edmund. Susan was friendly and she and Lucy were both interested in the same things, but she sometimes let being First Queen of Narnia go to her head and allowed herself to be swallowed by the glamour of her position. And Edmund was a nice, and she loved him very much, but he always seemed so distant, and Lucy had trouble opening up to someone who refused to do so in return.  
  
Peter suddenly looked uneasy. If she hadn't known him very well, she would have said he was nervous. "I wanted to tell you something, Lu, before I told anyone else. Edmund doesn't even know, yet." He hesitated, playing with the buttons on his deep green coat. "I'm going to lead the main body of troops to the Glasswater."  
  
Lucy stepped back in surprise, her eyes drawing down sadly. "What? Why...? Why not just send Borland?" Borland was the Commander of the Paw of the Lion, Narnia's military force. "Oh, Peter, you can't! Please don't. You have to stay behind and govern your country. It's your duty as High King."  
  
"No, my duty is to protect my country, Lucy. I'm sorry, but I'm going to war." Seeing his sister repeatedly shake her head, he spread his hands before him questioningly. "What would you have me do? Sit safely in the palace while our nation is slaughtered? What kind of king would I be then, Lu?"  
  
Lucy looked down at the floor, biting her lip lower lip to keep it from curling under into one of her famous pouts. It was a reflection on how young she really was, just barely nineteen. How had she managed to rule Narnia at the age of 7? Well, Peter had done most of the work, being 12, and he'd a lot of help from Aslan. Aslan... He was always there in times of need. Lucy wondered how long Narnia would wait this time for his return. But this was not the time to be thinking about such things. "What about Susan and Edmund?"  
  
"They're staying."  
  
She had a sudden idea, a marvellous and exciting idea. She had not been to war since the minor quarrels with the men of the North and their wolves, and that had been nearly five years ago. It had been far from pleasant, but she had felt a sense of pride while riding with her men, a rush of overwhelming power and excitement. Of course, after the battle was done, she and Susan had wept in eachother's arms over what they had done. But she was older now, and she could handle much easier, she was sure. She drew herself up to her full height (and even then, she did not even reach Peter's shoulder) and glared up at her brother with the fiercest light in her eye that she could manage. "Then I'm coming with you. I'll lead another company."  
  
Peter's face darkened, and before she had finished speaking, she knew it was useless. For all his talk about he, Susan, Edmund and she ruling Narnia together, it was he who always had the final word, and he had as much power over her as he did over everyone else in the realm. Almost as much. Nevertheless, she clenched her jaw and glared even fiercer, intent on fighting 'till the end.  
  
"You are most definitely not coming, young lady," he growled. "I'll have enough things to look after without watching you, too."  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Lucy indignantly. "You're treating me like a porcelain doll, Peter. I'm not nearly so fragile as you-!" She cut off abruptly as the door to the Royal Hall swung open and the members of the Imperial Court filed out, glancing furtively in their direction. What are you talking about, their stares seemed to ask, yet none of them addressed either Peter or Lucy. They chatted idly among themselves, scattering around the hallway in an almost lazy fashion and disappearing around corners.  
  
Lucy turned back to Peter and gave him a tiny curtsy. "Thou wouldst honour me if I am allowed the pleasure of thy conversation on another occasion, King Peter." He inclined his head slightly in response, and so she spotted Susan through the milling mass of people and made her way to her sister's side.  
  
"Sister, thy presence was missed near to the end of the gathering, and the court wondered where thou hadst gone and what couldst be of such importance that thou wouldst allow the final words to escape thy hearing," said Susan when she noticed Lucy beside her. She glanced at her sideways in obvious curiosity. "I myself would delight in knowing what you and our dear brother were talking about at yonder door."  
  
Lucy repeated all the important parts of her discussion with Peter as they began walking along the hallways, and Susan's reaction was much the same. "Could he not send another in his stead?" she said worriedly, wringing her white lace gloved hands. "Surely any one of his captains would take up the sword in his name. Fair little queen, why did you not argue against this decision? I could not withstand the knowledge that our righteous brother's pride has worked strangely upon his judgement that he feels it vital he lead in this counterassault. By the Lion's mane, it is often said that a man's idiocy is determined by the size of his dignity, but it is my belief that King Peter is making illusions of this matter."  
  
"Queen Susan, thy pardon I must ask, for truly did I dispute his judgment, but thou and I know both Peter's determination when fixes an idea in his mind. I fear there is nought to be done but stay in wait at Cair Paravel until his return."  
  
Susan gave a small, saddened sigh and nodded her beautiful head, causing her raven black hair, today in an intricate braid with several strands loose to frame her face, to sway. "Thou art right, Lucy. King Peter is obstinate as a mule. He is used to acquiring what he wants without query, and now his station has gone to his head. It is high time we took counsel from my reflection and spoke to him of this."  
  
Lucy stared. Susan had just described herself quite well, except for the remark about obstinacy: she was fairly agreeable. Peter was indeed stubborn, and Lucy doubted speaking to him about it would really change anything. Undoubtedly he would deny being stubborn to begin with.  
  
The two sisters sat down for their midday meal in a small dining room a little away from the Royal Hall. It was in a small, circular tower overlooking the sea. Tall windows surrounded it on all sides, making it feel so open, they might as well have been outside. A small table stood cluttered with dishes of food. There, over plates of salad and casserole, fowl and beef and venison and mutton, bread and cheese and fish, fruit and pudding and many other things, they talked about this new threat to Narnia, possible preparations for this war and how and when they should announce it publicly.  
  
"Certainly, Archenland and Calormen will know of our troubles soon enough," said Susan when Lucy spoke of their two neighbours. "'Word moves faster then a hummingbird's wings', or so Morlan always says. Aslan's Grace, but I have not seen that bird for a fortnight. I do so worry where his wings have taken him."  
  
Morlan was a Talking Beast, a black, fierce-eyed hawk with a stripe of gold running down his left wing. He was dear friend of Susan's, and when she had been more daring and much less delicate, and had enjoyed hunting, he would scout out the terrain and search for game. He stopped by the palace often, bringing news and gossip from around Narnia and the surrounding lands. Lucy could not understand the friendship: the two were as different as the air and the sea.  
  
"We would benefit from his sharp eyes," agreed Lucy between forkfuls of steamed vegetables wrapped in hot pastry. "These invaders would never suspect a scout of the air." She paused with her fork halfway to her mouth, frowning in thought. "Unless they know of Talking Beasts. We should never assume their ignorance exceeds that of our own." They both fell silent, left to ponder over dark thoughts. Lucy picked at her salad, no longer feeling very hungry. Evil strangers. Dark suspicions.  
  
That last echoed in her head, and she suddenly remembered the Calormene with the cold eyes. He wasn't important, now that she knew Peter didn't care if Calormen knew, but... She was suspicious of him. "Susan, didst thou discover the name of the man with the dark eyes? Something has marred my attention and I cannot get it out of my mind that he is somehow a great danger to us."  
  
"Yes, sister," Susan said with a frown of puzzlement. "I overheard someone address him by name. He is Lord Armonde, son of Axartha himself, Grand Vizier and Counsellor to the Tisroc of Calormen."  
  
Lucy raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. An extravagant title. I no longer think it odd that he carries his nose above the clouds."  
  
Susan snorted with laughter into her plate in a most unladylike fashion, and Lucy began to giggle as well. Soon, both of them were falling over their chairs, laughing until tears ran from their eyes, at the absurdity of it all. It was Edmund who found them this way. The moment he stepped into view from around the doorway, Susan cut off mid-chuckle, but Lucy could not stop herself. And just when she began to calm down, the sight of Edmund staring at the pair of them in such amused perplexity sent her off into gales of renewed laughter.  
  
It was such a relief to laugh, to forget all the problems that came with ruling a kingdom. She had only learned of the massacre at Burlin's Cap yesterday, but it seemed ages since she had had only small, trivial things to bother her mind with. This wonderful and simple joy seemed to restore her resolve. Edmund's expression, his faint, secretive, bemused, and ever so rare smile was such a lovely thing to look upon that she felt ready to face the day.  
  
Clearing her throat softly, the Second Queen of Narnia carefully composed herself once more. She felt her face redden under Edmund's bewildered gaze as she readjusted her hair and straightened her skirts. She forced herself to stand and look him in the eye. His smile may have brightened her day, but it didn't stop her from feeling horribly embarrassed. "King Edmund. What has occasioned this visit?"  
  
"Peter and I have decided to bestow you both full reign of the ball," the big man said. He and I will be busy with preparations for war, and so we would like you to do this without us." His face was so grim one would never have known he had been smiling but a moment ago. He glanced at each of his sisters in turn, trying to read their expressions, and then turned to go.  
  
"Hold, Edmund," said Susan, and he turned around once more to look at her. "Dost our eldest brother truly desire to depart on this... crusade? Pray, tell me how and why such folly and madness has entered his head. Peter has always been a man of deep thoughts and wondrous logic, and I cannot fathom what has caused such an untimely change of character." She was the picture of annoyance and disapproval with arms crossed at her waist, a slippered foot tapping and full lips pursed in displeasure.  
  
Edmund's face flashed with uncertainty for a fraction of a second, and Lucy did not blame him. She would have wagered a lion would pause when Susan was in a mood like this. "Forgive me, sister, but it would not be wise of me to answer this. If thou have need of a response, Peter is in his study."  
  
She turned to Lucy. "Sibling, would it displease you if I depart early from luncheon?" The way it came it, there was no doubt it in her mind that Lucy would say yes. "I wish to speak with our obstinate brother of this... cause." Barely waiting for her sister's nod, the regal queen stalked out of the room on Edmund's heels.  
  
Lucy sat back down in her chair, her meal forgotten. So she and Susan would prepare the feast themselves... Any other time, she would be brimming with excitement, but this year... it was not the same, and she knew it had nothing to do with her growing maturity. A year ago, the ball would have been main point of her life, but now, it was so small and insignificant. People were dying out there, and she could do nothing to stop it. Instead she had to fuss over what colour streamers should be put up, and what food she be served, and what entertainment should be featured at this stupid ball. Anger coursed through her veins, it seared her heart and burned her spirit. In the name of Aslan, she would not wallow in uselessness while everyone else bustled about being helpful! 'And how exactly will you do that?' asked a voice in her head. 'You've been nothing but a figurehead since your crowning. You've never really done anything of use.'  
  
The voice was right, and that only made her angrier.  
  
Author's Note: Sorry for the very slow beginning. I promise things will speed up from here. You might have noticed that I enjoy describing and taking very long to get to the point. I have issues... Please tell me what you think! 


	3. Unkown Anxiety

Chapter 3: Unknown Anxiety

The wood panelled door opened a tiny crack and a big, blue-green eye peered into the largest, most richly furnished bedroom in Cair Paravel. It was an enormous chamber in which everything seemed to be a bronzy red, with only small yellow, green and blue patterns laced in with the different shades of scarlet. The lower level of the quarters was a small library of sorts, with a large fireplace framed with tall bookshelves cluttered with volumes and novels. A massive burgundy armchair stood in front of the fire, and beside it an oil lamp to give light. Scattered here and there along the walls were stands displaying pottery or glass, porcelain or stone figurines.

Two steps up led to sleeping area with a bed, a night table and a wardrobe, all in shades of red. Three windows looked out onto the grassy palace grounds, and, further on, the beginning of one of the many forests of Narnia. Thick carpets hid the stone floors, and paintings and tapestries hung on the wall, as well as a long, slender sword with an elaborate golden handle and curved blade, both polished until they gleamed.

Peter lay sprawled on his bed in a white silk shirt, staring up at the red, yellow and blue patterned canopy. The curtains were pulled back so that Lucy could see him quite clearly. As quietly as a mouse, in case he was sleeping, she crept into the room, and closed the door softly behind her. Peter, who had very good hearing, lifted his head from the bed to see who it was, and once he caught sight of her, dropped it back down.

"That's it?" asked Lucy, walking to the foot of the two steps. "All I get is a glance? You're not even going to tell me how lovely I look in my gown?" She twirled around for emphasis when her brother looked up again to study her more thoroughly. "I won't bore you with all that rot about where and how I got it, but you should at least humour me with a few kind words."

"Absolutely stunning," he declared aloud, and Lucy blushed with pleasure. She had never thought of herself as stunning. It was Susan who was always described as radiant, elegant, beautiful. Stunning. Their age gap of three years was always just enough to reduce Lucy's appearance to simple girlish prettiness while Susan glided about, basking in her mature beauty. However, the younger woman refused to admit she was jealous, even to herself.

She fingered the tiny white snowbud on a silver chain around her neck, and the slim bracelet of interlocked white and silver lilies with golden stems hanging loosely around her wrist brushed against the wide, low neckline thickly embroidered with lace that ran to her shoulders. A soft, thin material that Lucy could not identify made the whole of her pale yellow dress, aside from the decorating lace. The sleeves ran to just past her elbows, and were frayed to add affect. The breast and waist fit very snugly with layers of the soft fabric, and the V shaped embroidery around the hips complimented her shape quite well. From there brimmed her slightly ruffled skirts slashed with green that brushed the carpeted floors, made to puff out by the many petticoats underneath.

"You think so?" Lucy asked nervously as she fussed with her hair, all twined together in a complicated but fashionable knot at the back of her head that had taken her lady-in-waiting nearly an hour to do. "I told Linna it was too much – she picked out the dress, you see – and I was sure my hair needn't be quite so fancy, and Susan told me – indirectly, of course – that I should watch that my bosom doesn't fall out, although her gown is much more revealing – I think, in any ca-" she cut off abruptly when she noticed Peter, sitting up in his bed, chuckling at her and shaking his head. "What on earth is so funny?"

"You," he said, still laughing. "That was the most horrible stream of babbling I've ever heard come out of your mouth. I'd expect Susan to get the jitters and spout nonsense, but not you. You nearly always have a clear head. I can't think of what would make you so nervous – we've had plenty of spring balls before this one." Recognition suddenly dawned on his face, and his tone grew mildly amused. "... unless you've met someone? A dashing young prince? A brave soldier? A Calormene fisherman, perhaps?"

Lucy clubbed him lightly over the head with an exasperated groan. Calormene fishermen were easily the most poorly paid people in all the lands. "Don't talk such nonsense, Peter. Of course I haven't 'met' anyone. I just want everything about this ball to go well. Including my wardrobe. Susan and I did plan it ourselves."

Peter rose from his bed and touched her arm comfortingly. "Everything will turn out splendidly, then. Now, run along and bicker with Susan. I need to get ready." He turned his back on her and missed the glare she directed at him. She and Susan did not bicker. They discussed, they debated, but they did not bicker. The fact that they surely would bicker if Susan ever got off her high horse was beside the point. Lucy very nearly ground her teeth. The way that woman made an insult seem like a casual remark was infuriating. The two had been quite unpleasant towards eachother these past three days. Why wouldn't they be, with Peter and Edmund closeted away planning and making arrangements for this counterattack. The sisters had spent long hours together, deciding on this and that, ringed with servants and friends for the preparation of the ball. Every time they disagreed on something, their irritation and intolerance grew stronger and stronger, until it seemed that sparks would fly from their eyes. A hint that the other's hair was mussed, an innocent remark that someone was looking very tired today, and the rest of the afternoon was spent glaring and muttering.

"Not with you leaving tomorrow, it won't be. Why can't you just stay? War is dangerous. You could get hurt. You could get killed." Her voice shook at that last. The very thought of Peter gone forever was like having ten thousand knives plunged into her heart.

He turned to face her again, his grave face etched with sadness. "I'm sorry, Lu. I really am. But you know why I need to go, and nothing will change my mind. I promise I'll come home." He wrapped his arms around in her in a tight hug, but she shoved him away roughly.

"You're a good liar, but you're not that good," she said, knowing a pout was coming on and not really caring. "You can't be sure you'll come home. I'm not some half-wit simpleton you can give a candy and a pat on the head to make everything better." He was a good liar, but he seldom lied unless he thought it was necessary. He really was quite sure of himself.

He smirked and nudged her playfully. "I know you're not." He turned serious again, looking down at her with eyes full of concern. Goodness, it was he going to war! "Why don't we just go to this ball and have a wonderful time? I'll be back before you know it, Lucy. You'll see. It's not as if I've never been to war before." He suddenly frowned in thought, thumbing at his chin. "Aslan's mane, I'm right! You and Susan make a scene every time I leave! Haven't you learned your lesson by now?"

Lucy pursed her lips ruefully. That was true. She and Susan hated it when their brothers left to do battle. Every time either one of them strapped on a sword, Susan and Lucy would argue until their throats went dry. It never worked, though. But to both of them, hours of coaxing Peter and Edmund to stay safe in Cair Paravel was a better alternative then to wait in worry and anxiety while they were out putting their lives at risk. Even if the coaxing may not, and probably would not work.

"Very well then, brother," said Lucy snootily. "Mountains can be shifted more easily then kings, or so my dear friend Mr. Tumnus states. I shall depart and leave thee with thou vestments. Take care with the clasps of thy coat, for surely stubborn children refuse to accept help from more capable beings."

Peter made a bow with an exaggerated flourish of his hand as he rose. "Expertly done, oh my sister. Only the most skilled prig could ever make such discourteous advice sound so grand."

It took every ounce of control Lucy had to keep from laughing. She inclined her head ever so slightly, keeping her nose in the air in perfect imitation of a Calormene's cold arrogance, and glided down the steps and out of the room. Only when the door was closed did she collapse against the wall in a fit of giggles. Passing servants or passing kings could stare for all they were worth, because this was the first time she had laughed in days.

========================

The beautiful but eerie sounds of Satyr voices mixed in with their sweet wooden instrument tunes and the loud murmur of many voices seemed so overpowering that Peter thought he might have heard it over at Burlin's cap, where he and his legion would be leaving for at first light tomorrow. Not the best way to spend a night before an early start to war, he knew, with the drinking, heavy food and the late hour he would get to bed. But he wouldn't have skipped this for the world. Not because it was a chance to catch up with old friends and make new ones. Not because of the beautiful music and the delightful dancing. Not because of the mouth-watering food lay out on tables everywhere you looked. Not even because of all the women that caught his eye in their elaborate gowns and their pearled and jewelled hair.

He caught sight of Lucy in the crowd, twirling about in the arms of her dearest friend, Mr. Tumnus the Faun. A little way away, Susan was conversing with a Calormene noble of high standing, judging by his fine black satin coat trimmed in gold. She looked especially beautiful tonight, with her hair gleaming in ringlets from the light of the thousands of candles in the chandeliers in the air or on the table or walls, and wearing a flattering silver silk gown. He almost laughed. Lucy had been right: Susan was definitely showing more cleavage then she. The Calormene seemed not to be opposed to her display at all. Peter could barely stop himself from gritting his teeth. Susan was a grown woman, now. It was passed the time he had been able to tell her what to do. It was none of his business if she did not mind men goggling at her breasts. It was not his place even to mention she might want to cover up. As her sister, it was Lucy's job, though he doubted she would pay the girl much heed. They'd been perfectly beastly to eachother for the last few days.

No, he would not have missed this for the world. If he had, his sisters would have tied him to a sinking ship. "It will be the loveliest way to see you off," they'd said, and they hadn't needed to wrestle him into it. He enjoyed such affairs. Even with having to put up with certain lords and ladies and their fake smiles and fawning compliments. "Your coat is of beautiful tailoring, my Lord," or "His Majesty is a powerful and noble ruler, for certainty, King Peter." It was difficult not to grimace at their simpering.

Round and merry Lord Aberon from Archenland joined Peter on the dais. With his jolly smile, twinkling brown eyes and swiftly greying brown hair, he looked for all the world like Father Christmas. He was an old acquaintance of the royal family of Narnia, and Peter was very fond of the man.

"King Peter of Narnia," he exclaimed in his deep, warming voice. "Blind my eyes, for with thy handsome face, I should be married and quite a good deal happier then thou looketh at this hour." He chuckled and reached up to put an arm around the youth's shoulders. Peter just loved his companionable manner and the way he didn't seem to care that the entire court and likely every nobleperson in the three lands was watching.

Peter grinned down at the balding fellow. "For shame, Aberon, chiding a friend over his unengagement to pursue the female race." He did not want to bore the man over talk about his worries of the war, and of his beloved Narnia. "Women are a costly matter, my Lord. They confuse the mind and muddle concentration. A king cannot spare such things."

"Well said, Peter," said Aberon, taking a goblet of wine from a tray proffered from a bowing servant and murmuring thanks. "You seem knowledgeable in these dangerous waters, indeed more so then I was in my youth." He smiled mischievously, and if possible, the twinkle in his eye brightened even more.

"Thou speaketh of a lover, my lord?" asked Peter curiously, masking his surprise. He did not believe many women could fall in love with such a large character, however kind, and it was difficult imagining Aberon any thinner then he was. Peter had always assumed he'd been fat when coming out of the womb.

The rotund lord chuckled richly and took a long swig from his wine. "It is a tale for another time, I think, my good king. Young love... But hear, it minds me of my nephew. It seems the lad has had an eye on thy lovely young sister for a time, and he hopes to seek her favour."

Aberon looked up at him expectantly and Peter stared back warily, seeing him in an entirely new light. It was apparent that the elderly man had planned this beforehand, and set it up from the start, leading Peter into a subject he knew was delicate as casually as possible. He was slyer then he appeared. Much slyer.

The young king shifted his gaze over to the woman in question. She was still talking to the Calormene gentleman. Perhaps Aberon's nephew was too late? "Well, now, Susan does enjoy men's company," he said as absently as he could manage, "and her age is even a bit past time for her to be wedded and settled down." Had he imagined hearing Aberon's ears prick up hopefully? The man was fool, Peter thought bitterly. Did he not think that Susan had had countless suitors before? Did he honestly believe his nephew stood a chance against so many other possibilities, especially if he was as large as his uncle? Suddenly, the wealthy lord's smile turned into a sneer, and the cheerful sparkle in his eyes was a glint of hunger and greed. Peter tried to get a hold on his anger, but failed horribly. If there was one fault he knew he had for certain, it was jealousy over his sisters. He knew he had no right to keep them, but even at only a mention of Susan or Lucy getting married made rage and suspicion flare up in him like a furnace.

"Queen Susan, good king? Pray, forgive me, for I spoke of Lucy the Valiant, your Highness."

His anger crumbled under surprise, and indeed, embarrassment. Who was the fool now? He wanted to laugh. He knew that Lucy was pretty, and even sometimes beautiful; in a childish way, he had to admit. Men did eye her sideways, though not nearly so much as they did Susan. The girls' gap of three years in age seemed much larger when they were seen together. Then again, maybe he wasn't such a fool. He had reason to believe Aberon's nephew was after Susan. After all, she'd been courted many times more then Lucy, for which Peter was glad, however grudgingly he admitted to himself. All four kings and queens of Narnia knew that he and Lucy had something special. Even as children (and Peter remembered next to nothing of his childhood) and even with their five years' difference in age, they had always acted differently with eachother then with Edmund and Susan. That didn't mean they fought less. In some ways, they fought more, but however serious, they always made up again. They shared something special. That was all there was to it. And he wanted to keep her, and that unbreakable friendship as long as he could.

This all flashed through his mind in a fraction of a second, and Peter, caught by surprise, tried to gather his thoughts together. "Well, I... I'm afraid, she's not mine to give... If... It's her decision, I suppose. I wouldn't want to interfere. It's her choice entirely." Only when he was finished did he realise that he'd dropped his courteous manner of speaking. Quite unusual.

Whatever Aberon had expected, he seemed satisfied, and pleased. "That is well, my Lord. Thy obvious affection and respect for Queen Lucy is most touching. And now, I shall leave thee to the many who undoubtedly desire the pleasure of thy company, High King." He paused in mid-bow looking up at Peter almost hesitantly. "If I may be so bold, King Peter, I simply would like to mention in passing that Queen Susan's companion for the evening is most unusual, under circumstances between Calormen and Narnia." The elderly gentleman's expectancy was so undisguised a blind half-wit would have seen it. Peter could almost smell his eagerness to see the reaction his words triggered.

"Susan has always been a lady of quick pardon and a kind heart, my friend," he said after a reflection he hid by taking a lengthy drink from his goblet. "No amount of insignificant grudges and petty disputes could harden her gentle, forgiving mind." He turned away from Aberon to study the Great Hall below, a display that said very clearly he no longer wished to speak to this particular courtier. Obediently, the Archenlander gave another bow and backed away.

Sighing, Peter took another swig of his wine. He never liked resolving to that sort of dismissal, but it was sometimes necessary when dealing with over-proud highborn. He had never counted Aberon as being among them, but times were changing, and the noble's head was now certainly swelled after being given permission, in a manner of speaking, to pair his nephew with a queen of Narnia.

He did not know what "circumstances between Calormen and Narnia" Aberon had been referring to, but displaying ignorance to peerage was dangerous. As a king, Peter was required to always speak truth-one of the vows he had made upon being crowned High King-and in this case, he had not uttered a single falsehood. It was Aberon's own fault for seeing a meaning in his words that was not there. But of course, he had meant for the meaning to be seen.

His eyes swept the hall once more, pausing at Susan, who was still with that Calormene, now on the floor reserved for dancers with her arms around her dark companion. If she had taken another lover, Edmund would have a fit. He was very prudish at times, and disapproved very strongly of Susan taking in so many men. Peter wasn't very far behind his younger brother, when it came to that. A lady needed at least a bit of shame, after all, and Susan seemed to have none at all. Why, just yesterday, Lucy had stormed into Peter's apartments all in a huff.

"That woman is the worst sort of minx," she had raged, pacing back and forth between the gilded red armchairs. "Flirting with a servant, honestly! No restraint! Don't know what the boy must have thought, being talked to that way by the Second Queen of Narnia!"

He had laughed then, but he was beginning to think that speaking to Susan about her behaviour might not be as bad a notion as he'd thought. Lucy was right, after all. What sort of reputation would she earn herself by batting her eyelashes at men left, right and centre like some tavern maid with her skirts cut short? He shook his head and downed the rest of the whine, wondering whether leaving the ball early was worth being skinned by his sisters.

A middle-aged woman with dark eyes and curly black hair appeared in front of him, curtsying gracefully and smiling with all of her pearly white teeth. He bowed back with equal formality, suppressing a groan, and struck up a polite conversation, all the while thinking fond thoughts of his velvet comforter and thick feather pillows.

=====================

Seabirds winged about under a deep, dark blue sky, hued a pale yellow over the treetops to the west, where the sun was all but disappeared. The stars were hidden behind big rain clouds, scattered in bunches overhead and seemingly moving at a snail's pace with the wind. Strong gusts whipped about Lucy's fair hair, which had somehow come undone during her promenade from Cair Paravel along the rocks to the sea. She looked out over the water, her face calm but tinged with sadness.

She could not explain it, this strange foreboding that had come upon her but a few minutes ago. She'd been wheeling about with Mr. Tumnus, glad and careless, and had suddenly had a terrible bubble of dread well up in the pit of her stomach. Excusing the Faun, she'd slipped through the multitude of couples out onto the paving stones of the sheltered courtyard with its fountains of stone and marble dolphins and merpeople and former kings and queens of legend. But even there it was crowded, and, longing with all her heart to be alone, she'd practically run between the massive pillars and tottered over the great stones to a small, sandy alcove on the shore, carved out by thousands of years worth of sea spray.

Lucy sat on a small ledge indented into one of the surrounding rocks, kicking up the pale sand with her bare feet: her slippers she had abandoned by the water. Years before, this would have been filled with her "treasures," sea shells, coloured stones or pretty feathers she had picked up during her roamings along the rocky shore. Back then, she had done little decision-making and much more learning about how to make decisions by specially selected tutors. She had had very few hours to herself, but nearly all of those were spent at sea, with friends and siblings or without, frolicking around in the waves in an old blouse and skirt. She almost laughed at the thought of doing that now, and even considered hiking up her skirts and dashing off into the water. Her hands twitched toward the waist of her gown, but she knew it wouldn't do to have a grown queen jumping about on the rocks, so she forced her hands together and placed them on her lap.

She was worried about Peter, that she knew, but this apprehension was not about him. It was about something else... something she could not quite make out, like trying to see through a sheet of mist. She'd read in a book once about a man who had visions and premonitions about events that would come to pass in the near future, but she'd been sure it was idiocy. Only a fool would believe in such nonsense. It had probably just been her nerves playing tricks on her.

"Speaking to the Wind Gods, my Lady?"

Lucy stood and whirled around to where the voice had spoken. On the rocks above her head stood a slender young man, almost slim enough to be called skinny, and of middling height, with brown hair that fell to his eyes and curled around his ears. She thought he was fairly good-looking, but Susan had once told her that she had strange taste in men, so Lucy decided most women would think him plain. He wore a long, dark grey coat nearly to his knees and finely tailored breeches of the same colour.

"I beg your pardon?" she blurted out, completely forgetting curtsies and formalities. The boy – well, he was probably about Peter's age, so he was not really a boy anymore – grinned at her in a way nobody should to a woman of her standing and stepped casually from the edge of the rocks, which were half again as high as Lucy, dropping to the ground beside her. Even though he was only averagely tall, the young queen barely came up to his chin, and had to look up to see into his eyes. Very nice, light brown eyes.

"The Wind Gods, Queen Lucy," said he with another grin that did not match his respectful tone. "You were humming, and you were looking out to sea on a windy night. It's an old sailor's myth.

'Any beast or man with threat

Look out 'ore the vast and wet

And sing thy song to Gods of Wind

To break the spells of Dreadful Sinned'."

Lucy felt a slow smile creep across her face as he recited the rhyme in a low murmur. He spoke to her as though she were the only one worth talking to, and the sound of his voice was so inviting, rather like Peter's, that it made her forget entirely that she'd wanted to be alone mere seconds ago. "Dreadful Sinned. Is that a sort of demon?" she asked.

"You might say that. He's the Spirit of Fire banished to the cursed lands beyond the ocean, so the tale goes. The "spells of Dreadful Sinned" are what common folk would call ill fortune." The way he spoke the words made it sound like he was one of the common folk himself, and he was so casual and easy that Lucy began to think he really was. Not that that really mattered, anyway.

"History?" she said, peering up questioningly.

"Legend," he corrected. He went to go lean against the opposite stony wall and crossed his arms over his narrow chest in a pose reeking of nonchalance. Any other time, Lucy would have been offended, but she barely noticed now. It was rare that she met anyone at parties or cotillions that did not bore her, and this young man was certainly not boring. She suddenly had a million questions to ask him that popped into her head

"Have you been at sea often, since you seem to be so educated in matters of beyond the waters?" She sat back down on her ledge and crossed her legs. It would not do to appear too interested, after all. She still had no idea who this young lord was, or indeed, if he was a lord at all.

"Not enough times to boast about, I'm afraid," he said, and Lucy gave a small chuckle. "I do enjoy the occasional voyage, but our coffers are all but emptied at this time of year, and a crew is not paid for in sea shells. And my father, Lord Normad, does-" he paused when Lucy gave a start at the mention of his father. "You know his name?"

He was Lord Normad's son!? She could not have made the connection had the two been standing beside eachother! Not only did they look nothing like the other, but Normad of Archenland was a pompous, self-absorbed man who smiled less often then a one-winged goose with no legs. He was perhaps the coldest, most discourteous member of the Court from Narnia's neighbouring country. His son may not be the best example of politeness, but at least his tone held proper respect, and he certainly smiled often enough.

"Well, of course you do," Normad's son continued with a sigh. "He's in the Imperial Court, after all. The most infamous member in Narnia, unless I'm mistaken." Lucy tried to appear as though she didn't know what he meant, but her attempts failed when the boy glanced back at her and laughed at her expression. He had a friendly sort of laugh, the sort that made you want to join in, and she did just that, if her giggles sounded a touch rueful. But then their laughter died into an uncomfortable silence, and the boy's gaze fixed to the rapidly darkening evening sky.

Lucy's thoughts drifted about in her mind, endlessly reviewing her worries like she had been doing for the past few days. Worries about Peter, about Narnia. She sighed up at the tiny sliver of the moon, ignoring the locks of golden hair that tumbled over her face in the breeze. "I would dearly love the help of the Wind Gods now," she murmured. Hearing nothing but silence from Normad's son, she let her gaze fall to his face, and when their eyes met, he smiled, his soft brown eyes shining with a strange trust, as though she had just confessed all her deepest secrets. Silently, Lucy wondered whether she had.

A gust of cold night wind topped the rise of the stone alcove, and flung her hair and gown every which way. Its chill embrace reminded her of how much skin she was exposing. Shivering, she stood and slid her feet back into her snug white slippers. "I believe I should return to the ball now. Won't you join me?" That last popped out before it had time to register into her head, but she had no intention of taking it back.

The young man stepped away from the boulder he'd been leaning against and gave a bow low enough to rival a servant's. "It would be my honour to escort the fair Queen Lucy back to the festivities, for I am but a humble subject and she a beautiful flower of spring and sunshine." He thrust his arm out with gusto for her to take puffed his chest out like a robin. Lucy laughed aloud as she obligingly linked her arm around his and the pair made their way along the shore toward Cair Paravel, their chatter and laughter mingling with the sounds of the ocean's waves against the rocks.

"You dare mock the Queen of Narnia, sir? I'm insulted. Though your choice of words was lovely. Are you a poet?"

"Certainly, oh unblemished white rose of summer, oh flawless beauty from the gates of Paradise. Your radiance and pulchritude are a blessing for the weak and sorrowful, the fairest, most charming maiden of the Four Lands."

"But you have no shame at all!"

"Not an ounce, good Queen."

=============================

Afterwords:

Well, I do believe that that this last bit about Lucy was incredibly rushed, but I don't have the energy nor the patience to redo it. Please tell me what you think and help me out with both my style and my story! And thanks so much to the people who have reviewed my previous chapters. It means a lot to me.


	4. Cruel and Icy Water

Chapter 4: Cruel and Icy Water

The thin grey cloak hung limp against Peter's back as though it were dead. Not a whisper of a breeze stirred the morning. It was uncharacteristically cold for this time of year, and the steady rain that fell from the sky was just short of freezing. The air around Narnia's massive cavalry force seemed almost as misty as the surrounding woodlands because of the visible vapour produced by hundreds upon hundreds of breathing mouths. It was certainly not a day to be out marching.

Presently, Peter's horse Dardread shied and bared his teeth at an enormous red Archenlander horse, which were known for their size. Its rider, a tall, blonde-haired and fair-skinned young fellow, flashed the High King a sparkling white-toothed smile, which Peter returned with difficulty. General Randid Heimshire was a fabulous commander and an amazing blade master, but he was one of the most irritating men in the army. His incessant boasts about women, politics, war and everything in general, would have been tolerable if his claims were not so outrageous. Just that morning, he'd tried to convince a soldier that he'd scaled the White Mountain, the tallest mountain in the Wild Lands of the North, something only the maddest and stupidest would ever attempt.

"Is it not a splendid day to be out riding, Peter?" Randid exclaimed swooping out his hands dramatically to gesture at the miserable, muggy weather. The man thrived on attention. "The morning brightens my eyes. Her smell revives me and her sound invigorates me and her beauty stuns me."

"Aye, she's a beauty, General, in all her foggy whiteness," snickered a nearby captain, and everyone in hearing range chuckled. Peter sighed. Randid Heimshire was a fabulous commander, but it was never easy to lead a military force when more then half of it thought their general was a nancy little halfwit with too-tight breeches who preened himself more then a peacock.

Heimshire swung around in his saddle to glare and the culprit, who, although he was many years Randid's senior, quickly ducked his head and murmured a "meant no offence, General." Apparently satisfied, the blade master turned back around to face his king, a grin on his face once more. Peter had to suppress another sigh at the thought of spending every day with this man for many weeks to come.

"I must disagree, Randid," he said, pretending not to have heard the captain's comment, "for this weather is inconveniencing our cause. The scouts I sent out when first the news came to me will not find us 'till this fog is clear, should it be hours or days or weeks."

"You are indeed in the right, my Lord. That I humbly admit." Randid looked anything but humble in his vibrant coat and with his chest puffed out like an overly agitated bird. "And we can do naught but press on and pray that our paths cross those of your scouts. T'would be unwise to halt our advance when we are so far from our destination."

Peter, who had been contemplating doing just that, nodded slowly. A fool Randid might be, but he knew what he was about. The company lapsed into silence once more, and the horses plodded on, hooves thumping dully in the silence and sounding strangely muted against the deep, impenetrable mist.

The rain pattered on for two days, dampening the Legion's clothes as well as their spirits. And still the fog and the windless cold persisted. Everyone rode their horses with slumped shoulders and downcast expressions. Peter watched it all, felt and saw the gloom and even a tinge of despair settle in, though they were only three days into the campaign. The soldiers' faces said it all. "There is no glory in this. There is no honour, no excitement." He tried to look alive, to cheer them, but it was a hopeless cause, and eventually, even Randid Heimshire lost his spunk.

They made their way south and a bit east, angling slightly toward the sea. The terrain was flat but slick and muddy from the rain, and even the most well trained beasts slipped in the muck. It was difficult to find suitable camping ground, and on the third day Peter had them set up only an hour or two after midday because he'd found a convincing area, and it was near certain there wouldn't be another for miles yet.

He dropped from Dardread to the ground, his knees buckling and almost causing him to fall over from stiffness. Sturdy leather boots crunched against brown needles. It was a thin wood, and smelled of pine and fir. A nearby chipmunk, startled by the sound and movement, dashed away, leaping nimbly from branch to branch. This forest, with its clear water drops dripping from the evergreen needles of the trees, its misty calm and sleepiness, its sharp and woody but strangely comforting smell gave Peter the most pleasant sensation he'd felt all day. He sighed in contentment. This was... peaceful.

The men got to work as quickly as only such trained men could. It was the work of a moment to get organised, begin to set up tents, clear small areas for cook fires, though it was doubtful anyone would find any dry wood today. A busy bustle set in, and it was a relief after the weary, strained, uncomfortable silence that had reigned during the march. The High King's confidence was building. If this sleepy little wood was having the same affect on the soldiers as it was on he, there would be a spring in their step and a brightness in their eyes tomorrow.

He walked among the warriors, giving a pat on the back here, exchanging a word or a smile there. It was good to know your men, to have them know you. He paced the length of their temporary settlement, and a few minutes later found himself at its edge and looking out into the woods with its trees that sunk into the mist like the shadows of a ghost. There was practically no plant life other then the pines and firs dotted about, except for the occasional early shoot of grass or weed that had poked through the dead brown needles that coated the forest floor. There was nothing in the distance but dim shapes melted into the fog.

He leant against a nearby tree, ignoring the knots that jabbed into his shoulder. Peter had never been much of a gambler, and he was playing a dangerous game of chance right now. He'd sent six scouts to the Glasswater as soon as he'd received the news, hoping to gain as much information as he could, hoping they would make haste and return in a day or two at most, but four days had come and gone without result, forcing Peter to lead the army forward without any news of this threat.

As dark thoughts began to form in his mind, the peacefulness of before faded and gave way to the inert ravings of a young man with too much responsibility. "What a fool I've been," he muttered under his breath. This entire campaign was a mad and utterly useless gamble. What ever had possessed his advisors and commanders to encourage this blasted venture. Why, this army could be at the gates of Cair Paravel at this very moment! And he had left the palace with a meagre guard, scarcely more then a few score. "What a blind, idiot fool!" He had half turned around, ready to issue the order to about turn and back to Cair Paravel at full speed, when he heard the distant sound of hooves thudding rapidly against the ground, coming from the direction he was facing. He squinted about, but it was next to impossible to make anything out in the thickness of the fog. Nevertheless, he continued scanning the surrounding trees, hoping to catch a glimpse of the beast and rider. The clinking of chain mail that accompanied the hoof beats assured him there was a rider.

The horse materialized out of the mist ahead. It galloped towards him at full speed, chest heaving and breaths coming in gasps for air. The horseman's head darted every which way, as though searching for something, and Peter could recognise his face. It was Julien, one of the six scouts sent out almost a week ago. He was a mess, his shirt torn and dirty, and his face haggard. When his gaze fell on Peter, he cried out in relief and booted his mount's flanks urging it faster. Meters away, he skidded to a halt and leaped from the saddle.

"My Lord, you must ready arms at once!" he said urgently.

"What!" the King exclaimed in disbelief. But before Julien had time to respond, there came a loud scream from behind, and the two men whirled around to see the camp erupt into chaos.

The enemy was already among them, coated in brown and wielding long, cruel-looking sabres that gleamed even without sunlight. There were hundreds of them weaving through the tents as far as Peter's eyes could see, darting about with silent and deadly quickness. Narnian men were being run through before they even knew of a danger. Men Peter was responsible for. Men he had carelessly gambled away...

"TO ARMS!" the High King roared, and his voice echoed over the treetops and drowned out the screams of dying soldiers. "RALLY TO ME! TO ME!" He dashed forward into the camp, his sword already out and swinging. "NARNIANS TO ME!"

The clashing of metal and cries of the dead sang a bloody song on the battlefield that day. Hundreds of Narnians were slaughtered in the few moments it took for the brown clad swordsmen to slink into their midst, and still more fell in battle, desperately fending off each thrust of the enemy, frantically fighting for just one more moment of life and knowing it was very unlikely they would see another sunrise, or their wife and children, parents and siblings, ever again. Many heard Peter's calls, but few could reach him before they were cut down. Later, when it was recorded into Narnian history, it was said to have been the fastest massacre of a complete military force ever to happen in the country, and was referred to, many years later, as The Slaughter of Saurion Wood.

Only five men still lived through the hour, five of the thousands that set forth just days ago from Cair Paravel. Their only salvation was their cowardice as they bolted from the battlegrounds and disappeared into the mist and the trees. They had no other choice: it was either that or be butchered and left to rot, surrounded forever more by the sweet smell of pine wood.

These five men ran for all they were worth even as they mourned for their dead companions, those they had abandoned. They fled the cries of the dying, the terrified screams of the horses, and the ring of steel. They left the butchered Narnian soldiers, the slashed tents and scattered supplies, and the silent enemies that stalked among the ruins, searching for survivors. They escaped the haunting smell of death and blood that still tried to grasp them with tendrils of its scent, to bring them to their knees and fill them with guilt for what they'd left their friends with, the fate they'd evaded while others they knew still clung to a thread of existence, still fought off each claim for their life.

Peter ignored the bloody gash just above the joint of his right leg, and the three long slices running down his back, and the shallow, stinging scrape that ran from his ear along his neck like a hanging noose. If he had had a rope right then, he might very well of strung himself on a tree.

He loped along with the others, but he did not glance back fearfully for pursuers like them, he did not wince in pain and poke gingerly at his hurts like them. His face was as hard as rock, and the rippling tide of the sea in his eyes was no longer the warm spicy shores with sun and sand and hot, gentle breezes. It was the wind-blasted, crashing waves of the ocean of the north, shattering against the endless walls of snow-capped peaks; the cruel and icy water an endless storm of a blue anger and hatred.

The hatred was not so much for the brown-cloaked warriors as for himself, his idiocy, his impotency, his damned recklessness. His fists were clenched so hard that his fingers might break, his teeth gritting so fiercely he might wear them down to his gums. He unclenched a hand long enough to run it along the bare blade of his only remaining weapon: a long, unadorned dagger of steel with a simple black-lacquered hilt.

His blade, ripping through flesh and bone, drinking in blood, gleaming red in the gloom and the mist, while all around, his men toppled to the sodden earth with a last breath of air... 

Peter's mouth twisted in fury and loathing of himself. He, the High King Peter the Magnificent, who had led his cavalry to the butchery.

He stared around with wild eyes, like brilliant blue flames thrashing in the confines of his sockets, wanting, needing to break free, to rage out of control...

A scream was building in his lungs, and he had a mad desire to let it free, to shriek the violence in his soul to the world. It was a scream not to be contained. It _demanded_ to be liberated. It demanded to be known, this scream of self-hatred beyond comprehension.

Soldiers lying dead all around him, eyes wide and accusing. What have you done, those haunted, soulless eyes moan. Peter whipped around and found them still staring. He turned away, but they were still watching. What have you done?

His hand slid along cold steel and lay to rest on the hilt, smooth against his palm. He pulled it from his belt and brought it up to his face to gaze at the shine of its edge. It was very sharp, and only then did her noticed the blood seeping from a long, straight cut running across his fingers. He also realized that he had stopped, and that the four others had also halted, looking back at him warily under tired, hooded lids.

He bolted from the battlefield with a mournful cry. He ran from the thousands of deaths that lay at his feet.

"King Peter, put the knife away," said Julien. It was odd, having someone give him a direct order. No one did that but his siblings... Peter looked at Julien, as if contemplating obeying. Or maybe as if challenging him, daring him to speak so to his king again. His features were growing harder by the minute, his expression darker, and his eyes angrier. Julien took a step forward, his worried and disapproving frown plain on his face. He was big, a handsome fellow, though he was looking a little worse for wear at the moment. He was certainly wider then Peter, and a few years older at that. The three other men leant away as if being pushed by the incredible tension of the moment, and watched with baited breath. All around, the forest was as still, and the thick fog cloaked the five deserters in silence and solitude.

Blood pounded in his ears, thumping in time with his footfalls against the ground. Behind him, the battle still raged, and he covered his ears with his hands to block out the sounds, the horrible, horrible sounds that sang of blame and guilt...As he ran...

As he ran...

Peter's head swung left and right, his breath quickening and his hand clenching and unclenching over the knife's hilt, as though he could not decide whether to keep holding it or not. He swallowed a ball of bile near the back of his throat, looking for all the world like a cornered cat. A cat willing to claw itself to death, if need be. Julien took another cautious step forward, raising a hand ever so slowly. "Put the dagger down, Peter," he said, calmly but firmly.

The king's gaze focused on the blade for a moment, and then shifted to Julien. The young scout took a step back, seemingly blown away by the intensity of Peter's face, the anger and loathing reflecting off those icy blue eyes.

Ever so slowly, like the shadow of a sundial, Peter's fingers twisted around the hilt of his blade, turning it until it rested against his wrist, pointing toward his heart. He kept his eyes on Julien, one of four fortunate enough to have evaded the slaughter he led his army to face. The blood of thousands soaked his hands, weighing him down and demanding justice. It screamed for justice. It roared for justice. It thundered to the heavens for justice.

"No!" Julien shouted. Rain had begun to fall again, and it plastered everyone's hair flat against their face. "You're the king, Peter. You can't abandon your men!"

A shadow of a smile flickered over Peter's lips, the most terrifying smile that could ever be imagined when paired with his wintry eyes. The smile twisted his face to such a level of self-hatred and revulsion that Darkness itself would have cringed at the sight. "I already have," the young man murmured softly, and plunged the dagger into his heart.

Afterwords:

Done screaming at Peter to stop it? Good! Now before you start flaming me and ranting that this turn of events is absolutely impossible because of... well, the entire Narnia series, I'd just like to forewarn you that things are definitely not what the seem...

So, anxious to read about how the rest of the Pevensies are faring? Wait patiently for my fifth chapter. I'm cooking up some delicious recipes!

PS: I just LOVE all who review. If you (Yes, that's right, you sitting at your computer at this very moment) have not reviewed yet, I beseech thee to tell me what you thinketh! If you think I sound like a dumbass and that I'm trying way to hard to make it all poetic, tell me that. And if you think that this is the most boring thing you've seen since that essay you had to write in the seventh grade about amphibians, tell me that too. And of course you'll tell me if you love it and want more right now!


	5. Scheming Blood

Chapter 5: Scheming Blood

_Click. Click. Click._

"First Queen, thou art toying with my leniency in a most displeasing fashion. Forgive my ill words, but grace and cordiality are notably absent from your face and mouth of this morn."

Susan's face hardened at Edmund's words. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and her mouth tightened sourly, but there was no other change to her posture. Even her nails continued to tap on the shiny polish of Peter's desk. Her vivid orange dress with blue and mauve lining the cuffs, neckline and hem and slashing down her skirts was fit tightly to compliment her figure. Her wavy hair glittered with silver ornaments pinned to her tresses, a delicate silver crown studded with white diamonds sat neatly on her head, and a circular silver pendant hung between a noticeably large amount of exposed cleavage. She was breathtaking.

Edmund seemed not to be impressed, his face equally sombre and cold as he stared her down with identical dark eyes. Thick arms were folded across the heavy black embroidery on his white coat, and he stood with his black-trousered legs and heavily polished boots apart. He wore no jewels, but the long, thin sword at his hip was enough, and to Lucy, he looked as fine as Susan and more fearsome. If she had not known him as well as she did, she would have been frightened by the dangerous slant of his eyebrows and the tenseness of his lips. And even now she was not sure that she did not feel a slight dread as she watched her brother glare across the room at the First Queen. She rarely saw him betray so much emotion: Susan must have really been trying his patience.

_Click. Click. Click._

Susan tapped away with her long nails. "You overstep yourself, Second King," she said softly, dangerously, putting a tiny, almost indistinguishable emphasis on "Second". "At pleasure, thou art entertaining the fantasy that King Peter set matters to thy own decisions, at pleasure, thou art attempting to cow my spirit with words of fang and so seize fist over Narnia." At this, she paused to shake her head, as though pitying Edmund his feeble plotting, mouth tight, eyes cold. "You will not speak so to me, Edmund. I am your elder, as well as your queen, therefore unless you are plotting decapitation, you will guard your speech and dispose of such cretin illusions of mastery."

Lucy's eyes were wide by the end of her sister's proclamation. There had been no fewer then ten insults and threats in only a few moments of talk. What, in the name of Aslan, was wrong with Susan? She had gotten bigheaded over being placed in the central throne before, but never had it been _this_ radical. Swallowing her outrage and getting her eyes back under control, she stood from her red satin seat and brushed her dainty rose-white skirts.

"Susan, I am pulled to utter a protest in Edmund's name," she began quietly, like a probing mouse at the edge of its door, searching for signs of a cat. But she could go no further. Susan's gaze whipped to fall on her, and her beautiful face was a cold, dark storm.

"Then tug back thy protests, girl," she snapped with the venom of ten serpents. "Your words as second queen do not hold much water. You should recognise rocky shallows when you tread upon them, Lucy, and this discussion is not one thou wouldst want to impede. Leave us." Her command was so final and her expression held such wrathful power that Lucy had turned on her heel and fled the study even before she had thought to do so.

Outside in the hallway, afternoon's cloud-filtered hues streaked through the sturdy windowpanes lining the walls. Lucy approached the nearest and looked out onto the ground below. To the left was a wall encasing still more of the palace, and to the right, greening meadows sprouting wildflowers, pale and vibrant, spread up to the very toes of Narnia's magnificent woodlands. Still farther could be seen the misty blue shadows of distant mountains.

The young woman let the rays of sunshine play over her face to melt the ice roiling in her chest. Susan's disgusting abuse of power was completely unacceptable: she had nerve, speaking to her own royal siblings in such a manner, younger though they may be. What was to be done, however? According to law, all beings of Narnia _must_ obey the High King/Queen without question. Who would _want_ to question them, with the paw of Aslan backing their judgment? And with Peter gone, Susan was High Queen, if only for the time being… Lucy sniffed bitterly. The Great Lion must have been ill when he'd placed Susan on the throne.

A chill wind breathed through the open window, blowing back her long straight hair from a sour face. Shivering, she reached out, grabbed hold of the latch and pulled it closed with a click. It was heavy and thick, and Lucy had to use the full strength of her arm to swing it inward. She leant against the inner sill, studying the stained glass picture before her. It was that of a man standing proudly among many trees. He wore odd clothes and held a sword point down against the ground. She frowned at the hilt and bent closer to see what she'd first thought a trick of her eyes. In the window's image, just where the blade ended at the centre of the cross hilt, there was a deep chip in the glass, as though someone had knocked a groove into its surface.

Lucy brought up a finger to trace the contour of the missing glass piece. Its jagged corners glittered red with the sunlight shining through from outside. Odd, she thought, that a pane even as thick as this should chip.

"Your Highness!" Surprised by the sudden shout from across the hallway, Lucy jerked her hand away, tearing her finger on the sharp edge of the broken glass. She grimaced with the pain and watched as the long and surprisingly deep cut began to brim with blood as red as the cause of its flow.

She looked up as the servant came nearer, a plain-faced young man with dusty brown hair. "What doth thou holler at thy queen for, boy?" she said irritably, though he was probably several years older then her.

His face reddened and he looked down at the floor while he bowed deeply. "Please forgive me, Queen Lucy. I should know better then to raise my voice so in your presence. I beg your pardon." He really did look mortified, almost ready to drop on his knees. Lucy softened at the sight of his chagrined expression.

"Think nought of it, fellow," she said in a much kinder tone then before. "Now, speak to me that which you will."

He kept his eyes on the floor as he spoke, saying his piece as quickly and quietly as possible, as though Lucy would again berate him for the volume of his voice. "First Attendant Lightsman bade me tell one of the Royalty of Narnia that the squirrel Terrus of Burlin's Cap has disappeared."

She stared in silence. What _nonsense_ was the boy spouting? There must be hundreds of people staying at Cair Paravel. Why on _Earth_ did he think she needed to know of one leaving? If it inconvenienced anyone in any way, why did he not take it to a lesser staff member? She was about to ask him that very thing when she remembered the squirrel, a week or so ago, who had brought the news of the invaders of Glasswater. Terrus of _Burlin's Cap_. Was that not where the slaughter had taken place?

She was quiet for so long that the boy chanced looking up from his bow. "Your Highness?" he said, as softly as ever. Lucy stared at him, completely distraught. Her thoughts were all a-jumble with a thousand tiny things that had built up over the past few days. Why, now, must she be burdened with another?

"I…" She tried to come to a decision, but there seemed to be a block in her mind that prevented her from thinking at all. She sighed, but instead of easing the tension, it only made her feel more harassed. "Inform the First Attendant that it is my wish that he investigate upon this matter. And have a blood salve sent up-"

Lucy cut off abruptly, staring down at her smooth index finger, where a moment ago, she had sworn there had been a deep slice in her skin. "What on earth…" she wondered aloud, running her thumb across her uncut finger. Had she imagined it? She spun to the window and sought out the image of the sword hilt. Spotting it, she leaned in close and studied the sharp gash in the glass. She would not be fool enough to prick herself on it again, but… Had she even done so? Frowning in confusion, she turned back to an utterly perplexed servant boy. "Go on," she tried to snap, but it came out too weakly to be heard as anything but a croak. Bowing low, the young fellow left.

Rubbing at the pain between her eyes, Lucy turned back to the windowsill and propped her elbows up on the ledge. There was a thump against the glass as she bumped her head against it, enjoying the coolness of it on her skin. She closed her eyes to shut out everything around her, just for the moment. She withdrew into her mind, where sisters were not enemies. A frown creased her brow. Where cut fingers did not heal themselves in a matter of moments…

The creak of a door behind her compelled her to turn. Regal and stern, Susan stepped out of the room, held Lucy's gaze for a moment with a deep, dark stare, then glided away down the hall, her skirts fanning out behind her. Lucy watched her go, wondering how she'd gone so quickly from sister to enemy in Susan's eyes.

Edmund emerged a few moments later, and spotted his youngest sister standing at the window. They exchanged a fraction of a glance, but it was enough for her to understand that there were certain things that needed to be discussed between them, in private. If there was any doubt that she had misread the look, her fears were reassured by the deliberateness in the way he walked down the corridor and took his time while stopping at the corner and turned around the bend.

Lucy waited a moment, then followed at a leisurely pace, making it seem as though she had somewhere to go, but that she was in no hurry to get there. As she rounded the bend, she caught the heel of a shoe that swung immediately out of view behind a door that closed quickly, but not too quickly. Edmund knew how to do these things. There looked to be no one around, but in a castle as large as this, one could never be too careful.

When she entered the room, he did not look up from the row of candles he was lighting along narrow tables against the nearest wall. Since the room was in the central block of the palace's chambers, there were no windows: flame was the only lighting available to them. With the door closed behind her, she waited until he was finished with her hands clasped in front of her.

The flickering glow of the candles illuminated half of him, while casting the other in shadow. The gold gilding on his belt and boots only gleamed on one side. For some reason, it made him seem all the more dark and sombre.

"It appears that we are alone in this, Lucy." With a flick of his wrist, the pinpoint of fire on the tiny wooden match in his hand was swept out in a puff of thick grey smoke that curled in on itself against its dark background. He placed it on a table, took a few steps toward her and folded his hands casually under his belt.

Lucy stood stone still. "Whatever 'this' is, I fear it shall bring us grief. Tell me of it, brother."

"Our sister is acting upon a folly I did not know she possessed. Her words and face blacken my heart, and spread truth to the doubts I had when first Peter assigned her to the throne in his stead. Some wickedness has reached her, and cast spells upon her. Of this I more than guess."

"Do you think me blind, deaf and dumb?" Lucy asked quietly, but went on before he could correct her. "It is not solely in Susan that this darkness has taken hold. I feel a dread in my breast, Edmund, one I have not known for uncountable nights, and my suspicions are centred on the very air that I take into me."

Shadows lined his face as he frowned at her. "I don't understand."

Lucy could only shake her head, her eyebrows drawn back in worry. "Oh Edmund, what are we to do?" She stepped toward him, and her lips quivered as she struggled not to cry. Why had Peter left, now at all times, when they needed him more than ever? He would know what to do. She could just see him throwing open the door, sweeping her up in his arms, and getting everything back the way it had been with a few well-placed words.

"I am at a loss, as art thou." He spoke softly, gravely, and each word boomed with a deep foreboding. "I wished only to caution thee: tread lightly around Susan, and any she keeps close. I did nay anticipate a time when I wouldst be wary of one I call my kin, but alas, such is come. Let us guard the road for news of Peter, and may Aslan lend him swift feet to lead him home." He sighed. "For the moment, we can only wait."

A ray of sunshine split through the darkness before its abrupt disappearance when Edmund closed the door behind him. In the dim, wavering candlelight, Lucy stood silently staring into space. Her mind roiled with unsolved problems and unanswered questions, and she felt an extreme and overwhelming sense of loss and hopelessness. She sat woodenly down in a chair on the wall, swallowing back a torrent of tears she felt welling up.

If Peter were here…

* * *

SecretlyEvil's note:  
I am so sorry to have kept everyone waiting so long... I've been on the longest block in my life... that and I've written a lot in my LiveJournal... Anyway, I promise I'll explain Peter's situation in the next chapter, but I still have Lucy's problems to figure out.  
Thank you so much to everyone who's been giving me help with my writing. You've affected not only this story but everything else that I'm working on! Have a blast with your flames, Susan-lovers! wink 


	6. Awakening

Forewords:

At last, the long expected chapter has been completed. Thank you all for patience, and for not tracking me down and murdering me for taking a year to write this. I had to set me passion aside for school, work and other such trifles. I hope this is satisfying, and I'll get right to the next chapter ASAP.

* * *

Chapter 6: Awakening

… _Peter…_

The faintest trace of a whisper alighted on his ears and lingered until he understood it. Awareness was slow in coming.

…_Peter…_

It was stronger this time, less distant, more commanding. Peter's mind was a confused jumble of emotion and senses in turmoil. He was blind and unfeeling: the only things real were the whispers, so he clung to them, focused everything on them.

_Wake up, Peter._

As if forcefully pulled from the emptiness by the now deep and powerful voice, his body, almost too quickly to fathom, passed from feeling nothing to feeling everything, and more. There was a hole in his chest, and he could feel every inch of muscle and skin out of place, ripped open and bleeding. The ground beneath him, the sweat on his face, were such tiny sensations they only put into perspective and intensified the pain. Brow knitted in agony, Peter slowly slid his eyes open and sucked in a gasp of fresh air through his teeth.

It was as though the fog and the rainy gloom of that dreaded pine wood had never existed, and it had all just been a horrible nightmare. Sunlight gleamed from behind the silhouette of sweeping mountains in the distance, casting colours over an early morning sky. Just a few feet in front of him, Peter could tell that the ground dropped away very steeply, and that far, far below there were rolling hills and lakes and rivers and wondrous forests. Immense trees of all kinds, cedar and pine and maple and birch, were around and about him, but spread apart, keeping the scent of the place, sweet and woodsy, from being old and stuffy, though the smell was certainly not new, either. With each breath of air, Peter felt himself getting stronger, despite the tear in his flesh.

When he turned to look beside him, his eyes met the stunning beauty of an enormous lion's face, with ageless eyes full of terrible wisdom and strength. Peter didn't jump: it was as though he'd known all along that Aslan had been sitting beside him, watching him. And yet for some reason, he could not seem to meet the Great Lion's eyes. Instead, he focused on looking at his giant, golden paws, set squarely on the ground a few feet away.

"Do you know where you are, Peter?" Aslan asked, his deep, booming voice sending a chill through Peter.

The young man, who at that moment looked like a small boy in a great deal of trouble, folded his arms gently and protectively around himself and answered a very quiet "No."

He could not remember the last time he'd felt so insignificant and afraid. Under the terrifying scrutiny of Aslan's shining black stare, he felt like a wriggling little bug. How was it that sometimes in His presence, he could feel as great and as powerful as the king he was (or was supposed to be) and at other times the very thought of greatness was laughable, because Aslan was there and it showed him just how small and worthless he really was (or should be)?

A silence stretched out between them, deep, foreboding and thick with strain. Peter, sitting propped against a tree and struggling to keep his breathing steady despite the intense pain it caused him, waited uncomfortably for Aslan to speak, and when he didn't, and after what seemed like a very long time, he asked, "Where _am_ I?"

Aslan leant down closer to him, as if to tell him a secret, his face stern and wonderful. "You are with me," he murmured, and it sounded like a growl. "Be at peace." He sighed out a puff of air, and Peter breathed it in and felt better.

The Great Lion stretched and settled himself on the ground and even so towered over Peter just the same. The young man found such closeness to him unbearable, burning with guilt and shame over what he'd done. He concentrated on the tips of his muddied black boots in front of him, avoiding Aslan's piercing stare.

"Some call this the Mountain of Aslan. It is where I reside when I am in need of rest." -and, as if he could tell what Peter was thinking – "Yes, even I need rest, Son of Adam." There was a trace of amusement in his deep, sombre voice. So many emotions in one sound.

_Just like those screams. So many emotions. Fear, pain, confusion. Betrayal._

He could feel tears brimming in his eyes. Helpless to stop them, he turned away from Aslan in shame so that he wouldn't see. Foolish, he realised. Aslan knew everything.

Then the air seemed to thicken around him with menace. "You weep for the wrong reasons, King Peter!" Aslan boomed with sudden anger, and Peter was so taken by surprise that he jumped and turned to face him. And when their eyes met, he was hit by such a rush of understanding that he nearly collapsed. For a long moment, all he could do was look into those endless black windows and think about what it was he had done.

He was not to be ashamed for leading all those faithful, eager Narnians to a battle that he hadn't even understood, as he had though. He was not to be ashamed for running when the enemy struck, and leaving his men to die in senseless violence, as he had thought.

He was to be ashamed for despairing, losing faith, and claiming his life. He was to be ashamed for selfishly, thoughtlessly and hopelessly putting a stop to his own beating heart, a heart Aslan had deemed good and true and righteous, capable and willing to lead Narnia through every hour of his life thereon after until he could no longer. To have disregarded his duty to Aslan and to the entire nation under his protection, and to have willed himself out of existence, was a crime more grievous than any other possible of him.

He thought of all those Narnians who would be without their King, wondering, waiting for his return, all his subjects who needed him. He thought of Edmund and Susan. And Lucy. What would she think of him if she ever found out what a coward he was? What a selfish coward, to have killed himself?

Then Peter did begin to cry, sobbing quietly with his face in his hands, and the pain that engulfed him then was far worse than what it had been before, and far worse than his still open and bleeding chest in which he'd plunged his own dagger. Aslan said nothing; he simply lay there and watched unblinkingly.

Finally his tears subsided, and he wiped his face clean with the back of his hand, feeling like a child. He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried. He glanced beside him to look at Aslan, but he had vanished. He thought briefly of getting up to look for him, but then remembered the state he was in and decided it best to just wait until he came back.

Peter closed his eyes and leant his head back against the tree, noticing for the first time how very quiet it was. There was no birdsong, no rustling leaves, not even the sound of the wind swooping about underneath the cliff's sheer drop. Peter felt warmth seep into him from the sun high in the sky, and took a deep breath of the clean forest air to clear his mind.

_What is to become of me now?_ he wondered. _I really am dead, aren't I? Am I simply to sit here with this hole in my heart forever? Until the end of time?_

"Your knife, King Peter."

Peter's head jerked up. Aslan had returned, and in front of him, nested in the lush grass, was the very blade Peter had used on himself, glistening red against the light. He had no idea where it had come from: he couldn't recall having it in his hand when he'd woken. It laid there between Lion and Man as they both watched eachother.

"What am I to do with it?" asked Peter, peering at it warily.

"You must drive it back into where first you felt its touch."

Peter blinked in surprise. "Why?"

"It will send you back to the time and place you belong. This was not meant to happen, Son of Adam, and it will cost you greatly before this is ended, but go back you must, and do what it is that is needed of you."

"But I'm dead, aren't I?"

"No," Aslan rumbled. "You are not dead." Peter opened his mouth to speak, but the Great Lion rode over him. "I knew what you were about to do, and so I intervened in Time. You are an inch from death, though not quite there."

"You mean, you stopped time?" Peter asked, amazed.

"Time is nothing where we are, Son of Adam." He turned away, pacing along the edge of the trees. "One day I will explain it to you, but now it is enough to know that you are still alive and that you must remain so. Return the knife to your heart, and return to Narnia."

Peter looked down at the glistening blade, pressing a hand to his still bleeding chest. The pain was excruciating enough as it was: sweat dripped from his face, tense with the pain of the slash between his ribs. Moving made it even worse, he realised, when he leant over to grasp the hilt of the dagger and pull it up to his eyes. His blood still soaked the blade, oozing over the carved black handle.

_Just slide it back in, and you can go back._

"Do I have to?"

Behind him, walking slowly away through the trees, Aslan stopped and turned half around. The shining, depthless black specks, even from a distance, told him more than any words could. He seemed almost disappointed that Peter had asked that. Then he disappeared behind an enormous trunk and Peter didn't see him again.

Peter sighed, sending a fresh jolt of pain through his lungs. It wasn't the pain of the dagger that he feared: that he could take. It was the pain of returning to what he had so completely been the cause of that he didn't know if he could stand: going back to face the guilt of those hundreds of Narnians who had died for nothing, all because of his mistake. He spun the knife between his fingers, hating himself. The hate turned to frustration. And the frustration to anger.

He'd been right: he _was_ a coward. Not only because he'd left his men to die, but that now he was too afraid to go back and live with what he'd done. No. He owed it to everyone to be there and take responsibility. He had no right to escape their judgement like this. Peter's eyes narrowed with sudden fury and resolve. He would go back. He would go back and somehow make things right again.

Closing his eyes, he braced his grip around the hilt of the knife and once more sunk it into his heart.

* * *

Lucy sat up very suddenly in bed, her hand against her breast and her eyes wide. She sucked in a gasp of air through her open mouth and for a moment forgot to breathe as her eyes darted about the familiar corners of her expansive bedroom. And then she let the breath out again, feeling her heart starting to return to its normal pace.

She must have been having a nightmare, though what about she hadn't an inkling. She was horrible at remembering her dreams.

Lucy rubbed a hand across her eyes to rid them of sleep. Now that she was good and awake, there was really no point in staying in bed. She slipped out from under her covers, shivering in the cool autumn air. She would have to move into her winter room soon. Enveloping herself in her night coat and a pair of pearl-studded yellow satin slippers, she went to her morning table to brush out her hair, more out of habit than for any other reason, for it would be a long time before daybreak.

The flame of the candle she'd set down on her table lit up her looking glass as she ran the pick through her tresses, calm, even strokes to settle herself after the rude awakening. She closed her eyes against her reflection, and thought of Susan and her unexpected burst of hostility toward her siblings. There must be a reason. It couldn't simply be because she had so much power now that Peter was gone. There had to be something more.

Where had the times gone when she could have just stormed into Susan's room, started a row, have a go at if for awhile, get tired and have everything return to normal? She wanted so much to simply ask Susan what it was that was making her like this. The very idea seemed ridiculous now.

She set down her pearled brush and reached for the daintier comb. Instead of touching the cool silver of the handle, her fingers scraped against a smooth, soft piece of parchment. Taken by surprise, she snatched up the note and held it close to her face. It was only two lines.

_Lucy,_

_Don't touch the ruby charm._

Lucy felt her body tingle with excitement and curiosity. This was neither Edmund's nor Susan's writing: Edmund's print was far larger and Susan's far loopier. She couldn't place it on anyone else, either. Tumnus the fawn, quite possibly her dearest friend in the palace, was accustomed to leaving her little notes, but he placed them on her pillow rather than her morning table, and his were much longer and less mysterious.

_Don't touch the ruby charm._

Why not? What is the ruby charm? And who was it that had given her this? Was it a warning? Or a threat? Or a riddle? Or all at once?

Lucy tucked the note under her sash and dashed out the door. Mysteries like these were far too intriguing to be tossed aside.


End file.
